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Drunkest Ever Story: UT
By Anonymous | August 6, 2007
My first college road trip was a classic drinking Triple Play: belligerence, fighting, and police involvement. When we arrived at my friend’s cousin’s house at the University of Tennessee there were about 15 people milling about and waiting for a keg to arrive. I grabbed a cup and half-filled it with Bacardi and topped it off with Coke.
When the five kegs arrived I had four quick beers and quickly found myself in “the Zone.” Every word I said was delivered with perfect enunciation, every joke I told was uproarious. A couple of rednecks within earshot disagreed becoming insanely jealous and acted on such jealousy by challenging me to a myriad of drinking contests. I realized midway through that they were not even chugging and were just challenging me to haze me, but I refused to look weak in front of them, so I chugged.
Before long the Zone was a distant memory and I was a mess. I had vomited several times, I was still pissed that we had lost the game, and making matters worse, I was the odd man out at a redneck convention. So I did the only (drunkenly) logical thing that came to mind: I started antagonizing people. Mid battle-o-words with one such redneck, I spurted the night’s catalyst: “Oh yeah?! I would rather be a vagina at Vanderbilt than a penis at UT!” It didn’t make any sense, but it was enough to spark a fire amongst my toothless peers.
One of them hit me, so I tried to shake it off dramatically a la Harold Sakata in Goldfinger, but before I could my friend hit my assailant from the side and a 50-on-3 brawl ensued for a couple minutes. Before our asses became thoroughly kicked, we agreed to go up to a room and go to sleep. Some of the rednecks made their way into our room and I tried to defend myself with a kayak, but to no avail. We left and Dizzle, the least drunk of the three of us, started driving home at 3 in the morning.
Dizzle had no idea where he was going and ended up going the wrong way for about an hour, which is a big fuckup considering he was going 93 mph. We were pulled over (Dizzle pulled over into the median), and the cop saw me nearly dead in the back and ordered Dizzle out of the car.
He convinced the cop that we were friends; the cop told mandated that we spend the night in a local motel, or go to jail. He made us drive backwards on the freeway to the nearest exit and park it at the nearest motel. I woke up the next morning, massively hung over, and a hundred miles further from home in the middle of nowhere. That was the first of many times that I said, “I am never drinking again.”
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